


oxytocin or something

by eggstasy



Series: The Care and Feeding of Washingtons [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, something happy for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 12:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6153271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington deserves to be touched without the intent to do him harm.  Five instances in which he receives just that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oxytocin or something

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltsanford](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/gifts).



“You have a Sarge impression.”

Washington heaves a sigh and turns around to regard Grif suspiciously, giving the soldier a very obvious judgmental look. “So the only time you actually come to the training room-”

Grif waves a hand. “Forget about that, we both know it’s a battle you can’t win. Look. Simmons said that Tucker said that you have a Sarge impression.”

The peer pressure route hadn’t worked; it had just ended up with Grif beaten up and still shirking his duties, so Kimball had instructed Wash with the long-suffering resignation of a woman defeated to just leave Grif alone and stop wasting everybody’s time. Maybe he can use this. “I might.”

“I wanna hear it.”

He can _definitely_ use this. “Come to training all this week.”

“What?! No. No Sarge impression is worth a week of training, forget it.”

“If you come every day, then I’ll do my best Sarge impression every single day. You’ll get seven days of fresh material.”

Grif stops. His helmet tilts in consideration. “…give me an example. I wanna know if it’s worth it.”

Wash glances around for eavesdroppers before plucking a shotgun from the weapons rack and pumping it. “Men! It has come to my attention that the _dee-plorable_ conditions of this motor pool are A) _undoubtedly_ Private Grif’s fault and B) easily remedied with just one thing: a _high-powered diesel-fueled mechanized companion_ , or as I like to call it, a _hi-dies-mechanipanion!_ ”

There was a rumor floating around Armonia in regards to Grif’s laughter being ‘something that the dreams of children are made of,’ which Wash had thought was both absolutely ridiculous and probably more of Matthews’ disturbingly persistent hero worship. He’d heard Grif laugh before; it was a mean, snarky-sounding thing that made you wonder for days if he’d been laughing at your _joke_ or laughing at _you._ It wasn’t anything nice or pleasant.

Ohhh, he was wrong.

Grif doubles over, slaps a hand against Wash's chest to hold himself up and _guffaws_ and Wash almost drops the shotgun, he’s so startled. Against his will his heart warms at the sound of it, the delighted _oh-ho-ho-ho_ of it until Wash realizes that up until then, Grif must have been laughing _at_ him and not _with_ him which hey, _that asshole was laughing at me all those times,_ but Grif now just sounds so happy and joyful and downright jolly that Wash can't muster up the will to be insulted for prior transgressions.

Well, right now. He'll get his revenge later, when it comes time to make Grif run laps.

 

* * *

 

Washington prided himself in being pretty scary to the troops under his tutelage. It was a necessary thing; in a military setting, respect commanded along with it some fear just because you had to respect that your CO would do to you exactly what he said if you didn't finish those reps, _right now_ soldier, and if you were caught slacking off one more time you'll _really_ regret it.

Boots are always afraid of their drill sergeants, if they're good. That's just the nature of the beast.

His team, however, is constantly doing its best to make him the least terrifying thing in all of Armonia. Tucker and his constant attitude aside, Carolina and her perpetual one-upmanship notwithstanding (of which he could do absolutely nothing about, as he's sure that's a genetic trait of hers and cannot be unlearned even if he were to be suicidal enough to suggest it), Wash can usually at least get Caboose to listen and, if not respect him (which he does, he must, in his own way), at least be quiet and save whatever he wanted for later so that Wash would not lose face.

But not always.

He's in the midst of a lecture regarding when to retreat and when to rally when he feels a great weight drape over his shoulders and the back of his head. Two years ago he'd have immediately thrown back his elbow; now, he just goes stiff and still as he waits for Caboose to step away from him and announce what he wants.

(This is a new development. Caboose has been told no far too frequently for his liking in this much more rigid setting and is constantly coming to ask Washington for permission for things he has already been denied. Washington's gotten good at telling whether or not he's the first person Caboose has asked.)

But Caboose doesn't say anything, just stays there with his chin atop Washington's head, his arms over his shoulders and completely, totally unmoving. This is unusual behavior. This could be something alarming. He could have destroyed something very valuable, or _worse,_ he could be depressed.

“Dismissed,” Washington tells the cadets firmly, attempting to remain as stoic and badass as he usually does without a nearly seven-foot-tall clingy giant in regulation blue burying him in wordless attention-seeking. Once they clear out (and once he's made a mental note of the ones who snickered for later punishment) Wash sighs and reaches up to tug on Caboose's wrist gently. “All right buddy. Something wrong?”

“I am feeling sad,” says Caboose, shoving his helmet against the back of Wash's, “and I wanted to be near you for a while.”

“Why are you sad? Missing Church again? You know he's just busy.” Wash is starting to get a crick in his neck. Maybe if he turns around Caboose will get the hint and- nope okay, Caboose will just transfer into a hug and cling to Wash that way, all right. At least it's not his desperately happy rib-cracking embrace, at least there's that.

“No. Some people came back from an important job, but not as many who went out on it.” Caboose tucks himself around Wash as much as he can with their armor in the way. “Some of the people who died were Smith's friends and he was upset. So now I'm sad.”

Wash's mouth goes dry. “Oh. Caboose, I'm...I'm sorry to hear that. Were they your men?” Not that the troops technically under Caboose's command go on specific missions with him. Generally they get shuffled over to Tucker or Wash for instructions, but that doesn't mean Caboose doesn't know any of them.

“Nnno, just his friends.” Caboose heaves a sigh. “I just wanted to be near you. Your hugs are some of my favorites.”

Oh god. That can't be true. “Um, why?” Wash's hands come up to pat Caboose's back anyway, because how can he _not_ return the gesture after something like _that?_

“Because you mean them.”

Even if Wash had an answer for that, he wouldn't be able to say it with the lump in his throat. So instead he holds Caboose even after it gets awkward for him, lets Caboose soak up what he seems to think is grade A affection before he drifts off on his own, sufficiently cheered and leaving Washington to contemplate, yet again, how little he knows of himself.

 

* * *

 

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Wash!” Donut flaps his arms. “ _Please!_ There's nobody else I can ask!”

Wash imagines that with his tone he has discovered a new dimension of existence. First, a line. Second, a plane. Dimension one-point-five is best represented by how flat Washington's response is. “You're joking.”

“I'm not!”

He's not.

“ _Please._ I'm hosting a party tomorrow and I just want to brush up on my skills and make sure everything's in good working condition!”

Wash casts about for a substitute. “What about Caboose?”

Donut heaves a sigh. “He gets distracted too easy, he won't stay still.”

“Tucker?”

“Refused!”

“Grif?”

Donut gives him a pitying look. “Wash. No.”

 _Damn it._ The problem is that Wash can't turn him down, for the simple reason that as Donut's one-time attempted murderer, he is indebted to the man for life. Donut might be unaware of it, but he could ask Wash for nearly anything and Wash, out of a sense of deep, unending guilt, would be compelled to comply. He has to do it. He has to give in.

He has to let Donut give him a manicure.

They end up in Donut's quarters with beers, of all things, Donut soaking Wash's hands in warm water and Washington staring at anything that isn't the Lichtenberg figure spiderwebbing across his face, pockmarked with the characteristic scars of a plasma burn.

Donut has so much lace. “How did you- where did you get all of this?”

“Oh this junk?” Donut waves a stick that looks like it would be effective as a torture device. “I already had this in my luggage I brought with me!”

“ _What_ luggage?”

“Wash, how do you feel about a french tip?”

Wash searches his memory. _That isn't a sex position, right?_ “Uh. Go wild, I guess.”

Donut starts doing something with the stick that is mildly uncomfortable and makes Wash want to flinch, but he also doesn't want to show fear so he sits as stoically as possible as Donut's hands pull and push and grip _his_ hands in a truly discomforting way.

“You have a pretty good grip,” Wash notes, desperate for conversation to break the silence. Maybe if he fills the quiet with noise, nobody in the room will mention shooting people who get in their way or anything of that nature.

“Of course!” Donut pats Wash's hands dry and starts to trim and buff his nails. “I used pitch, like, _all_ the time.”

“With,” it must be, “baseball?”

“Yup! High school. I was the star player from my sophomore year on! Had a fastball that averaged 90 MPH in my junior year, and I could throw a curve, slider, knuckleball and change-up, too.” Donut leans forward to examine Wash's nails closely, wiping them down with the towel. “My batting average wasn't fantastic, but I was a _darn_ good pitcher.”

“Oh.” Wash sits up a little straighter, curious now. “Wow. It sounds like you had real talent.”

“Got scouted a few times.” Donut grins up at Wash and puffs a breath up at his floppy hair. “That's a big deal when you're a dopey nobody from the middle of nowhere.”

Donut's hands sure and firm around his own doesn't actually feel as mindnumbingly terrifying as he'd thought it would. Now that nothing alarming has happened like Donut slowly breaking his fingers at the knuckle one by one, it's sort of nice. Less like being restrained, more like...something else. “So what happened?”

“Well, I joined the army. Duh.” Donut shrugs a shoulder. “Honestly, the odds of me actually making it to the Major Leagues was so small. Not to mention that if we all died because of aliens, there wouldn't be any Major Leagues anyway! I wanted out of Iowa one way or another, and the army was a sure fire way to get that.”

“Yeah, I. I can understand wanting to get out.” Wash's home hadn't been anything special either...or anywhere since then, until now. “Explains the hell out of your throwing arm.”

The smile Donut gives him is so pure and pleased that Wash has to look away.

In the morning he orders recruits to give him double laps for their lip, attends a war room meeting with an irate Kimball and a stubborn Doyle, cleans up no less than three Caboose disasters and somehow, _somehow_ manages to talk Carolina down from beating Tucker half to death-

-without chipping his perfect pink and white french tipped nails hidden in his gloves even _once._

 

* * *

 

“We've got him! Go!”

There's so much noise around him Wash thinks he might throw up. Too much noise, too much moving, his vision keeps blacking out and he's being moved without permission, he needs to get up, he needs to assess- someone is putting him down but he's still moving, still swimming, still lifting into the air, the dull roar of a Pelican's engines kicking into overdrive just past the walls.

“I got you, I got you, you're okay,” Tucker's voice murmurs and he's a solid wall, a pillar against which Washington crumples. His hands won't move the way he wants. He paws at his helmet. “Dude, it's okay, I got it. You're on Chorus,” he adds as an afterthought, Wash thinks wildly, because Tucker does that now, he thinks about that sort of thing, knows that whenever Wash is disoriented that sometimes he can't pick out where or when he is.

Hands unclasp his helmet and Wash is blinking into the worried faces of no less than four cadets until a teal hand comes into his view and swats them away. “Fuck off! He's fine, give him space. Sit the fuck down.”

His skull is _throbbing._ His brain is in pieces. Someone is propping him up, his back, his shoulders; he falls back against something hard until Tucker says soft, “Okay, okay dude, you're okay,” and his head is carefully lifted, something softer nudged beneath it. “Wash? You with me?”

Washington spends all of a minute trying to remember how to talk. Someone is wiping at his face, he can't see who. His vision keeps going dark, his eye stings. “Tuck- Tucker,” he manages after a few aborted attempts. He remembers things in flashes, in the wrong order.

“Yeah, dude. You'll be fine. We're headed back.” _The flash of a muzzle. The ping of rounds off his helmet. The scream of alarms. The crack of a high-caliber rifle in the distance. Sobbing, someone weeping. The ground rushing up at his face._ “Wash, hey, stay here, stay with me.”

Wash's arm hangs limply over Tucker's leg. He reclines back against his chest. _Epsilon's left a gaping hole in his head, ragged and infected and bleeding into his mind._ He'll be fine. Tucker's got him. They're on the ship. _They never came back for me._ They came this time. Tucker came. He'll be fine.

“Wash...!”

 

* * *

 

Wash wakes up to far too much red.

It's just Sarge, too-big armor crammed into a too-small visitor's chair. He's holding a book, an actual book with pages; the title reads, _How to Revitalize Your Sex Life in Twelve Easy Steps!_ Washington immediately hopes that he's having a nightmare.

Sarge spots him awake and sets the book on his knee. “Y'all right in there, son?”

Washington stares tiredly. He's never felt so exhausted. His head feels like cracked glass.

Sarge leans forward in his chair and, to Washington's great shock, very gently rests a hand on Washington's head, away from the bandages, away from the wound. “You get some rest.”

Like that, with Sarge's fingers in his hair, Wash thinks he might be able to.

So he does.

 

**Author's Note:**

> gift for [saltsanford](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford) because i was inspired by the wonderful moments in her incredible fic, [_"The Long Road Back To Good"_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5142290/chapters/11835647)
> 
>  
> 
> **read it**


End file.
